LoveMakers

by Gould, Judith

  The show was a long-running, smash musical revue called Reach for the Stars, for which a new cast was being assembled. The rehearsal hall where the auditions took place, like the others, was in the West Forties. If anything, it was an even more dilapidated building than all the others she had been in so far. She was the twenty-eighth girl in a line-up of about fifty, and she recognized a lot of the actresses from previous auditions. It seemed that nobody ever got a part. Yet there was a peculiar air of brave camaraderie about the girls. Most of them knew each other and tried to put one another at ease. But they ignored Charlotte-Anne.

  With trepidation, Charlotte-Anne sat quietly on one of the rickety benches, awaiting her turn. With each passing minute she was filled with a mounting sense of dread.

  One by one, the other girls before her went into the rehearsal room. She heard them all sing, accompanied by an out of tune piano. They were all so good. Even through the closed door, she could tell that much.

  Oh God, she prayed silently. I can't carry a tune or read music. I can't even dance. I'll just make a fool of myself.

  Just as she made up her mind to leave she heard a name being called out.

  'Carla Hall!'

  She froze. They called her again, and somehow she managed to get up, her legs weak, her body shaking. She armed herself in the only way she knew how, by squaring her shoulders and assuming an aloof, steely, lady-like veneer.

  The big audition room was bare and dim. An upright piano had been placed in one corner, so that the player faced out. Four men and a woman sat in the shadows at the far end. A young man in baggy trousers thrust a sheet of music at her. She stared at it stupidly and turned to the piano player. He looked grizzly and unkempt, half hidden behind a veil of cigar smoke. Then the out-of-tune piano began to pound. She stared down at the undecipherable notes she held in her hand. She took a deep breath. Perhaps she could fake it. She had heard enough renditions of the same song for the last two hours.

  She opened her mouth to sing, but no sound came out. The piano player stopped after playing the first few bars. Horror-stricken, she looked at the four men at the other end of the room, but they didn't seem to be paying any attention to her. Slowly she turned to face the piano player, who was rolling his eyes. He started over.

  Again nothing happened.

  The young man in baggy trousers marched toward her and snatched the music out of her hand. He flung open the door. 'Next! Ethel Broward!'

  In dismay, Charlotte-Anne stared at the four men and the woman. She had been dismissed, this time without even an if- we = want = you = we'll = give = you = a = call.

  She hadn't even rated that.

  As though in a dream, she saw the next girl come in, a confident, smiling brunette in her mid-twenties. Charlotte-Anne knew she had to leave, but she couldn't move. Her feet seemed to be nailed down to the floor.

  'Well?' the young man demanded. 'You waitin' for a miracle?'

  That snapped her out of it. She turned around and, clapping a hand over her mouth, ran from the room. Her eyes were burning as she burst out into the waiting room where the others were staring at her. She hurried down the flight of steep stairs. She thought she was going to be sick before she ever got outside.

  She leaned against the grimy brick wall, taking deep lungfuls of fresh air. The queasiness slowly left her, but she was sobbing loudly, the tears spilling down her cheeks. She had never felt so humiliated in her entire life.

  She heard footsteps behind her and turned away, hiding her face.

  'Hey, there's always another time, kid,' a man's tenor voice said gently. 'Not everybody was cut out for song and dance. You just came to the wrong audition is all. Mistakes like that happen all the time.'

  She wiped away her tears and sniffled. 'I'm not a kid,' she said quickly. 'I'm twenty years old.'

  It was her first lie to him, the first of many. But at the time, it didn't seem to matter.

  'So you are.'

  She turned around slowly. He seemed to tower above her, handsome, rugged, yet somehow slick and polished. His eyes were agate and hypnotic, and a half smile hovered on his lips. He was one of the four men who had been sitting at the far end of the room, but now he looked curiously familiar . She had the feeling she should know who he was, but she couldn't place him.

  He grinned apologetically. 'Sorry. I didn't mean to call you a kid. It's just an expression.'

  She smiled and nodded. Then suddenly her heart seemed to shrink. Now she knew why he looked so familiar ! She had seen his picture in the newspapers and magazines on countless occasions. She had even caught one of his shows the year before. He was Mickey Hoyt, one of the most brilliant stars of the New York stage.

  His eyes shimmered with a marble-like gloss. 'Come on, I'll buy you a cup of coffee.'

  For the first time in her life she felt an instinctive physical longing well up inside her. It was as though something deep within her, which had always lain sleeping, was suddenly awakened. She found herself nodding. She was spellbound.

  He placed a hand under her elbow and guided her toward Times Square. 'Been having a tough time of it?' he asked as they walked.

  She nodded, trying to keep up with his long strides.

  'I know what it's like. I've been there, too.'

  'You?'

  'Sure. You don't think I was born onstage, do you?'

  She shrugged. 'No. It just comes as a surprise, that's all.' She frowned. 'Sometimes it seems like I've cornered the market on rejections.'

  'I wouldn't worry too much if I were you. You're beautiful, possibly one of the most beautiful young women I've ever seen, and believe me, I've seen a lot. But you've got them all beat. You project a certain quality, something the other girls don't have. There's something of the reserved New England lady about you.'

  'I'm from Texas originally.'

  'I know that. Your speech says so. But your attitude is strictly Bostonian.'

  Her brow furrowed. 'Maybe I should try to get rid of my accent?'

  He shook his head. 'I wouldn't worry about that. What you need are good roles. There're plenty of those which call for your kind of accent.'

  'And they're impossible to get.'

  'Not really.'

  She looked at him with quickening interest. 'Do you know something I don't know?'

  'No, but I've got something you don't have - connections. Lots of people in this town owe me favors. This business is strictly 'you scratch my back, I'll scratch yours.' All I have to do is call in some old debts to see about getting you some decent scripts. Some you can study and try out for without going through those humiliating cattle calls.'

  She couldn't believe her ears. 'You could really do that?' Her voice was a whisper.

  'Why not?' He grinned easily . 'I'm Mickey Hoyt, aren't I?'

  She nodded solemnly.

  'It'll take time, though. The most important thing is to find you the right script. But I warn you, it won't be a big part. Just a decent one. The rest is up to you. Think you can handle that?'

  'Can I!'

  He stopped walking. 'Here we are.'

  She stared up at the lovely building. 'This isn't a coffee shop,' she said softly.

  'No, it isn't. It's the Algonquin. But room service does send up a decent pot of coffee.'

  She looked hesitant.

  'And I confess, I did lure you here.' He smiled disarmingly. 'Under the most dishonorable pretext.'

  A faint flush crept through her skin and she looked away.

  'You don't have to come up. But I'd like it,' he said softly. 'We can always sit downstairs in the lobby and just talk.'

  'No, that's okay.' She glanced up at him. His eyes seemed to reach out and become part of her. As he held her gaze, she had the sensation that the earth had stopped moving, that they were the only two people alive.

  As though she was under hypnosis, she followed him into the hotel and up to the nineteenth floor. When they reached room nineteen-nineteen, he closed the door and locked it.


  He turned around and smiled at her. 'Don't worry, I won't get you pregnant. There are other ways to make love, you know.'

  She watched him unzipping his trousers. She stared down at him with fascination. His phallus was already semi-erect, large and reddish purple. So this was 'the plumbing' all the girls in school whispered about. When her brother had been a baby, she had seen his tiny genitals, but this was the first time she had ever seen a grown man's penis. She had had no idea that it could be swollen so large, or look so angry. For a moment, panic seized her.

  She felt his hands on her head, pushing her down to her knees. The carpet was thick and soft. She stared up at him. His eyes were glowing intently, like burning embers.

  'Come on, baby,' he said, his voice soft and husky. 'Eat me. Eat me good.'

  It wasn't making love, she realized; but it didn't matter.

  She did as he asked, when he let out a growl, she instinctively removed her mouth and turned her face away. Semen spurted thickly through the air. Then he held her, and the only thing she could tell herself was that it was worth it.

  No sacrifice was too much.

  When she arrived at the Algonquin, she was as wet and lovely as a drenched swan. No one stopped her as she hurried through the lobby. Despite her soggy state, she looked like she belonged. She had the nonchalant bearing of one accustomed to luxury.

  She headed straight for the elevators and went directly upstairs. He was always waiting for her, always in the same room, and always on Friday afternoons. Now, after all these weeks, room nineteen-nineteen had become her home away from home.

  And perhaps today . . . Dare she hope that today, at long last, he would finally have found the perfect script for her to read?

  When she stood in front of the door, she brushed some of the rain off her coat, took off her hat, and shook it dry. She patted her hair and took a deep breath. Then she knocked softly three times.

  She could hear footsteps on the other side of the door. In a moment it would open, and he would stand there, tall and handsome, melting her with his dazzling smile and the promise in his eyes.

  A key turned in the lock, but when the door swung open Charlotte-Anne let out a strangled cry. It wasn't Mickey Hoyt standing before her; it was Elizabeth-Anne.

  'I think,' her mother said in a quivering voice, 'that it's time you and I had a serious talk.'

  3

  When Charlotte-Anne came out of the examination room, her face was pinched and she avoided looking at her mother. She didn't think she could ever face anyone again, but especially not her mother.

  Dr. Rogers, a large, lugubrious man with watery gray eyes, caught Elizabeth-Anne's gaze. He shook his head discreetly and went back into his office.

  Elizabeth-Anne allowed herself a deep sigh of relief. Then she sank back in the waiting room chair and closed her eyes.

  During the ride home, Charlotte-Anne stared morosely out of the car window. Neither she nor her mother exchanged a word. She realized it wasn't just because her mother was disappointed with her, but because she was embarrassed too.

  When they got home, her mother silently followed her into her room and shut the door.

  'You're still a virgin,' she said softly, sinking down on the edge of the bed. 'Thank God.' She looked directly at Charlotte-Anne.

  Charlotte-Anne's face blazed scarlet. She sat down on the chair of her dressing table and hung her head in shame.

  'I won't pretend that this hasn't come as a shock,' her mother said. 'Just before Larry and I were set to leave, the telephone rang. It was one of your teachers. She was very worried about your health and wanted me to reassure her that you were all right.'

  Charlotte-Anne groaned inwardly.

  'Do you realize,' Elizabeth-Anne asked softly, leaning forward, 'that you've missed twenty-seven afternoons of school this year? Twenty-seven!

  Charlotte-Anne closed her eyes. She'd known she'd been 'ill' a lot of days, but even she hadn't realized they added up to that many. 'I . . . I can explain,' she whispered falteringly.

  'I wish you would.' Elizabeth-Anne looked at her daughter curiously. 'This day has been no end of unpleasant surprises. After the call from school, Dallas was in here making your bed when your phone rang. Naturally, she answered it.'

  Charlotte-Anne felt her stomach turn sour. She should never have given Mickey Hoyt her number. She'd only done it because he insisted.

  'It was someone named Mickey,' her mother continued, 'and he asked for Carla Hall. Of course, Dallas was too surprised to correct him. He left a message for you. He said he couldn't meet you today, but that he'd be at the Algonquin next Friday, as usual.

  'And he just came out and told Dallas that?' Charlotte-Anne asked in bitter disbelief. 'Just to try and end everything between us?'

  'I can't speak for him,' her mother said. 'Perhaps he wanted to do that, perhaps he didn't. But for us it was a simple matter of deduction. Larry went to see the desk clerk at the Algonquin who, of course, was very discreet and claimed to know nothing. Under the circumstances, that was to be expected. But when Larry took him aside and told him you were underage, that he was prepared to go to the police and file charges, and that this could possibly result in a case of statutory rape, he recalled everything. It seems,' she added drily, 'that room nineteen-nineteen was becoming quite well known for your Friday afternoons.'

  Charlotte-Anne shook her head miserably.

  'Of course, Mr. Hoyt should have known better. He's too well known in this town to think he could get away with something like this. However, I'm sure it's not entirely his fault, although I might like to think so.' Her mother looked pained. 'I won't pretend I'm not disappointed in you, Charlotte-Anne. I am. However, we are all human. We all make mistakes. Especially when we're young.'

  'I'm not a child anymore,' Charlotte-Anne said softly. 'I'm a woman, Mamma.'

  Her mother looked at her and nodded. 'It seems impossible that you've grown up so fast. I still sometimes think of you as a child. Now I realize that was my mistake.'

  'It wasn't your fault, Mamma.'

  Her mother sighed wearily. 'Perhaps it was, and perhaps it wasn't. I don't think we'll ever know the answer.' She rose to her feet. 'I have some serious soul searching to do. I suggest we wait until tomorrow to decide how to handle this.' She crossed the room to the door.

  Charlotte-Anne lifted her head and looked at her. 'You hate me, don't you, Mamma?' she asked thickly.

  Her mother turned and looked at her with surprise. For the first time, Charlotte-Anne was truly aware of her mother's strength. 'No, I don't hate you, Charlotte-Anne. There are things you do that I might not like or approve of, but you are my daughter.' Elizabeth-Anne's voice grew gentler. 'I could never hate you, no matter what you did. I love you. Someday, when you have children of your own, you'll understand.'

  For a moment Charlotte-Anne looked at her in amazement. Then her vision blurred with tears. 'Mamma?'

  'Yes, dear?'

  'I love you, too,' Charlotte-Anne whispered.

  Elizabeth-Anne smiled. 'I know that.'

  'I'm really sorry, Mamma,' she cried despairingly. 'For all of this. All I've been thinking about was my - Oh, damn! I've ruined your plans and Larry's. I've been so selfish.'

  A soft expression veiled Elizabeth-Anne's eyes. Her mother was, Charlotte-Anne realized, handling this highly unpleasant matter with the utmost fairness. Somehow, Elizabeth-Anne Hale was managing to keep her own emotions under tight rein.

  'The property is still available,' Elizabeth-Anne said, 'and I'll sign the papers for it in a few days. And Larry won't run off, that much I know. Nothing was postponed that couldn't have waited a few days, anyway. The only thing that matters to me is that you don't get hurt.'

  Charlotte-Anne gave a little nod. A lump was blocking her throat and she could not trust herself to speak.

  Elizabeth-Anne opened the door. 'I'll see you later, dear.'

  'Yes, Mamma.' Charlotte-Anne watched her mother leave. Only after the door closed did she fli
ng herself onto the bed and burst into tears.

  She was desolate with humiliation and remorse, and terribly angry with Mickey. God, how she hated him. He had not only been indiscreet, but his behavior had been downright despicable. She should never have trusted him. She had told him that she was married, and that no one must find out about their Friday afternoons. It didn't matter that she had lied to him. She had had a reason, and a good one. But he had gone out of his way to disgrace himself and her, the bastard!

  She could only deduce that he'd deliberately tried to end their relationship, in the ugliest way possible. And that meant one other thing as well, which was what hurt her the most. He had never meant to help further her career. It had all been idle talk. Just a way for him to control her.

  She felt dirty, tricked, and used.

  'I have come to a decision,' Elizabeth-Anne told her the next day as they sat in the living room. 'Painful though it may be, I think that in the long run, it will work out for the best.'

  They were sitting alone, facing one another on the matching apricot couches. Charlotte-Anne had been awake half the night long, and had finally come to terms with the truth about Mickey Hoyt. She had not loved him, she saw that clearly now. She merely had been dazzled by who he was, and what he had promised to do for her. And he had liked her for those needs of his which she could fulfill. It hadn't been easy to look at it in those bare-boned, brutal terms, but it had been a necessary exercise. Coming to grips with what she and Mickey shared - or more importantly, what they hadn't shared - had left her with a new kind of maturity, and for the first time she was seeing her mother not from a youthful vantage, but as a fellow adult.

  She felt she was appreciating her mother for the first time. Elizabeth-Anne Hale was an attractive and well- groomed woman, very much the lady, in her exquisitely tailored, Jane Regny suit with its jacket flaring slightly at the hips, and its skirt reaching to midcalf. No one would ever guess that she came from a small town in Texas. Looking back at the past few years, Charlotte-Anne realized that she had never known anyone quite as adaptable as her mother, who could accomplish so much and do it with such style.